


Sleepy in Paris

by eyeslikerain



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M, Twenty Years Later, just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 21:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16272542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeslikerain/pseuds/eyeslikerain
Summary: “Oh, Dr. Papen, careful with the students!”, Francis teased, putting his glasses on the night table.“I am, I am. But how about those redheads in my bed? You are not under-age, are you?”





	Sleepy in Paris

Paris in December, around the shortest day of the year, is a dark affair. The city is cold and wet. Gusts of salty, freezing wind from the North Sea seem to pervade every street. Europeans obviously favour black as the only acceptable color for winter gear, and the smell of wet wool and the uniformely dark coats still had a slightly depressing effect on me. The external circumstances hadn’t changed much from when I saw the city for the first time, also shortly before Christmas, in those glorious days of our evolving love, ten years ago, when everything was rose – tinted, regardless how short the days or how dark the coats. Now, I only noticed what was missing or disturbing.  
It may sound spoilt or snobbish, but Paris had gotten so much reality, so much our second home, that I sometimes had difficulty to see it in the romantic light most people do. I was rather bothered with everyday annoyances: late, crowded and damp métros, never – ending dinners surrounding my guest lectures at the Sorbonne, the different and tighter times when shops were open and the ensuing discussions on who forgot to get milk and bread, the tiring security procedures at the airports, the jet-lag. I had had an exhausting day at the Sorbonne, and I felt morose as I saw so little of Francis when we were here together.  
Walking from the métro station to our apartment, I remembered our first blissful week here, so many years ago, when we stayed at the lavish, large apartment of Claude in his Baroque palais and did nothing but enjoy ourselves, go to museums, browse bookstores and add some remarkable memories to our erotic experiences in the deserted, stately rooms of the old town house. I remember Francis standing one morning at the window with it’s low wrought-iron railing, wrapped in some blanket, a steaming cup of tea in his hands. He looked at me in the bed and said, amazed and incredulous:   
“I have never been so happy in my life.”  
Despite the fog outside, the wet, dark city, the short days. And despite the fact that he was due in two hours at Sotheby’s, translating for one of Mr. Blackwell’s American customers in a showing and later at the auction. This had happened at a very short notice – we had no idea it would be the beginning of Francis’s professional career as a translator for various auction houses. And it evolved quickly, this new job – partly certainly because of his ability to switch perfectly and fluidly between the two languages, partly because most of his clients were wealthy upper-class and he just looked the part. Sometimes, I was even now excited to pick him up after an event and to single him out in the audience. His flaming hair made this effort easy, and his look of “sexy librarian” he had acquired over the years, always surrounded by thick, glossy catalogues and sporting various elegant glasses, still turns me on. Spotting him suddenly in the mostly silver-haired crowd, looking so cute and erudite, has it’s effects on me, and more than once we had real trouble restraining ourselves before we hit private, familiar ground before tearing our clothes off. As none of us was keen on getting into conflict caused by indecent conduct, we always tried to get home – more or less successfully. The one time in the Opéra Garnier didn’t count, according to Francis, as the boxes were installed exactly for this purpose. The other time, in a rarely used bathroom on the top floor of an honourable auction house, was far more dangerous and risky, but utterly exciting and unforgettable, despite a certain sordidness.  
We needed to transport some of those feelings, this initial magic, into our actual life, I thought, trying to avoid puddles of freezing rain on the sidewalk. I passed a florist and stepped in to get a dramatic red amaryllis for Francis, cut short so as to fit onto his night table.  
After his grandfather had died, Francis came into a frightful amount of money. It enabled us to some improvements in our lives, notably settling things with his aunt regarding the country house that was now officially his, and buying the Paris apartment, but we worked nevertheless. Because we loved what we did. And, to be honest, the knowledge that we didn’t have to made it easier to endure the tiring stretches every job provides – interhuman muddles at Columbia, where I held my main teaching job, or authors who were late in handing in their manuscripts for Francis’s translations, and subsequently publishers who raised hell and put pressure on him. But we were free to refuse jobs or additional invitations we didn’t like and had all in all a very pleasant, interesting life. Only now, we suffered from one of the seasonal peaks where one event rushed on top of the next one and we had barely time for each other.  
When I punched in our code, I was glad I had excused myself from the usual nocturnal outing. I was tired, and I wanted to see a bit of Francis before falling asleep.  
The old wooden floor of our apartment creaked when I made my way to the bedroom. It wasn’t that late, but Francis was in bed already, surrounded by a horrendous pile of manuscripts, the cute reading glasses which had replaced his pince-nez on his nose. His hair was damp and he smelled of his bath oil when I leaned down to kiss him.  
“I didn’t know you would come this early, darling. I was freezing and just decided to go to bed.”   
He hugged me. Our apartment was beyond beautiful, but being an old, draughty place, with quite old-fashioned heating, never really warm in winter. I hid my nose in his hair:  
“Good idea. I will join you.”  
After getting a vase for the vibrant, small bouquet and taking a shower, I slid under the covers. Francis shuffled the paper around and tried to pile it somehow neatly, telling me he had had the most interesting lunch with this author and was looking forward to the translation. I told him I feared one of my female students had a crush on me and how I had avoided meeting her tonight, thus cancelling the dinner.  
“Oh, Dr. Papen, careful with the students!”, Francis teased, putting his glasses on the night table.  
“I am, I am. But how about those redheads in my bed? You are not under-age, are you?”  
We slid lower and cuddled. Deep peace seeped into my veins when the warmth of the sheets and Francis’s scent surrounded me. My hand was still at his neck, stroking and massaging a bit. We leaned our foreheads together and breathed slower. I remembered our first time in Paris – I guess we only had listened to each other’s breath afterwards. Never before. There was no time in our anxious hurry to take each other, possess each other, explore all possible orifices of our bodies. Now, just lying there, breathing together, closing the eyes a little felt so much more appealing.  
“By the way” – I seemed to have startled Francis who looked up rather drowsily – “I got the mussels you like. In this shop in the Rue de Bretagne.”  
“Oh! I love you!”  
“I also got bread. And milk.”  
“Marry me!”  
Running my hand up his back, I drew him closer:  
“Wait, we stopped at – you wanted to make sure I don’t have to pine after students. Didn’t you?”  
“Yes, yes”, he mumbled, slid nearer and kissed me slowly. ”I did, indeed.”  
His hands slipped under my pajama. It felt good, comfortable, cozy, but I still waited for a bit more excitement or arousal from my part. I slid his trousers down a bit and started to stroke the silky skin of his butt. Lovely. Cute and lovely. I felt drowsy. Francis moved nearer and pressed his hips to mine. Rocking a bit into each other, we tried to remember former occasions like this – to no avail.  
“Oh, I forgot to tell you: Camilla called! She is in the country house. I forgot to tell her we are here.”  
“Oh, what a shame. Is she alone?”  
“Yes, but Paul will come up in a few days when his break starts. She said she would be glad to wind down all alone after teaching a full load last quarter. I asked Nick to get some groceries and wood for her.”  
“Wonderful.”  
Nick and Jay were the new caretaker couple after Mr. Hatch had died. They were a bit mysterious, arriving after our ad in a flashy yellow (or light green?) vintage car, with hats and white summer suits like right out of the Twenties. We never learned what they actually did, but Nick was a great gardener and a wonderful, unobtrusive help in the house. Jay seemed mostly to stand and look over the lake, preferably when moonlight sparkled in all shades of silver on it, smoking and thinking. They were happy with living rent-free in the former carriage house and the salary Francis provided. They seemed to like the seclusion the country house offered, and we were glad to finally have a gay couple who wouldn’t raise it’s eyebrows at our way of life.  
“Will we see them for Christmas?”  
“I hope so, I told her to stay as long as she wanted.”  
He slid back into my arms and rested his head on my shoulder.  
“Darling, didn’t you forget something?”  
He looked up, astonished and a bit disoriented. Until he kissed my lips:  
“That, you mean? Goodnight-kiss?”  
“No, not yet.” I slipped his trousers down even farther and cupped his ass.  
“Didn’t we want to…?”  
He sighed and tried to hide a yawn.  
“Why, yes, absolutely” – a sleepy, limp hand fumbled at my not even semi-hard cock. “How do you want it?”  
“I” – I yawned openly – “I have no opinion. You tell.”  
He sighed once more and tried hard to keep his eyes open while he looked at me.  
“I want on my knees. If I will still be awake enough.”  
“Yes. Love your gorgeous…” My hands had stopped, I just enjoyed the warmth of his smooth skin. His nose hit my neck. I felt his faint breathing warming my skin and almost drifted off to slumber. In an effort to keep us awake, I asked:  
“Where’s the lube?”  
He was silent. Had he fallen asleep?  
“Oh. No.” He stopped, nestled closer. “It’s still in that suitcase. Over there.”  
Oh. That was a first. We hadn’t missed it yet?  
I reached over him to switch off the light.  
“Why don’t you…”, I mumbled. It was almost the last thing I remembered before falling asleep. But I guess Francis didn’t hear me anymore – his body had gone limp, one arm thrown over my stomach, and he grew heavier and warmer every second while slipping peacefully into dreams.


End file.
